


Flower Child

by B_Uthoughtwrong



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Green Arrow (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hanahaki Disease, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2020-11-10 14:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20853323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Uthoughtwrong/pseuds/B_Uthoughtwrong
Summary: Bruce Wayne was a teenager when he met you for the first time. Part of him wishes he had met you earlier, part of him whishes he met you later, but a bigger part of him wishes he hadn't met you at all. Or does he?





	1. Sketchpad Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> Its very vague but itll be clearer next chapter hopefully

In all of Bruce's life, he had never, ever, been so disrespected. All the coolness of his Wayne exterior was cracking at the seems when this teenager threw a sketchpad at his head.

"Glad that I finally have your attention."

Bruce fumes at the short girl, "How dare you be so disrepectful?" He pulls back any form of bad language and his clenched fists, not that he'd ever hit anyone in broad daylight.

You turn to him and raise your brows, "What, grampa? We're the same age, why are you talking like that?"

Bruce almost rolls his eyes so hard it's almost audible.

"You were standing in the way," you shove his shoulder then suddenly prop down to the floor, "there was no other way to get your attention."

Bruce is dumbfounded, "You're not going to apologize?!"

"Sorry you're an idiot."

With that, Bruce loses it, "You must not be from here!"

You look up at him, covering your eyes from the shine of the sun. You decided he was very handsome, but super over dressed for a park in his suit. You turned back to the grass and your sketchpad, "Is this the part where you tell me you own the park?"

Bruce finds his voice caught in his throat. He coughs softly then raises his upper lip, "I will."

You knit your brows at Bruce pulls out his phone.

After a few short minutes and the finishing touches of your drawing of the landscape, you stand back up and find yourself staring at the lanky boy's chest. You turn back to his face and confirm he has an odd mustache-y stubble going on. "I own this park now."

You purse your lips and nod, "Okay, I'll leave then."

You turn on your heels, only to have your wrist get pulled at harshly. "You can't just suddenly leave!"

You roll your eyes this time around, "And why not?"

"You owe me an apology."

You huff, "Fine. What's your name?"

"Bruce Wayne."

You blink rapidly, suddenly recognizing him. You don't give it away though and only clear your throat, "Bruce Wayne, I'm sorry."

Bruce smirks, all smug, but before he could taunt you, you're already walking away.


	2. Manor Manners

“Where have you been, child?” my mother asked as soon as I stepped in our home. I cursed under my breath and thought of how this day is truly unlucky for me. I grip my sketchbook. Out of all the days I come home, today is the day I run into my mother when she wears her perfume _Compel._  
  
I look up at her and she knits her brows at me, _“Answer.”_  
  
I straighten my posture and level my head, “At the park, mother.”  
  
_“I_ _was_ at the park, mother.”  
  
I clench my jaw and parrot her correction, “I was at the park, mother.” _Please don’t ask who I saw._  
  
_“Good,”_ she pinches my jaw lightly. She adjusts the handbag hanging from her arm and pulls out her large, square sunglasses, “I’ll be back before dark.” I sigh in relief. “Fleur has brought you dresses for the party on Sunday. Pick one and decide what your hair and makeup will be.”  
  
I shake my head.  
  
“And for the last time, dark eyeshadow will never be appropriate. You are sixteen, all you need is blush and lip-gloss.”  
  
Why do I have to put makeup on at all then?  
  
“Go have dinner, and do your studies,” she says as a goodbye, ghosting a kiss on my cheek, so not to smear the color painted on them. “Goodbye mother.”  
  
She waves at me as her silver Bentley car pulls up. Our valet exits the driver’s seat, allowing my mother to enter and drive off.  
  
“Good evening, Pauly.”  
  
“Good evening, miss.”  
  
“Have you eaten?”  
  
He nods, “we all have. If you’re quick enough, maybe Fleur is still eating.”  
  
  
  
I nod then run down the multiple halls, take a turn in the ballroom and make my way to the dining area. Fleur seemed like she finished eating with how she was gathering her plates now. I huff.  
  
We make eye contact and I run over to her, “What’s for dinner, Flurry?”  
  
_“What is_, miss.”  
  
I roll my eyes, “Mother is not here.”  
  
“Yes, but the more you use contractions, the more you will get used to it.”  
I groan, “Fine. _What is for dinner, madam Fleur?”_  
  
She continues gathering her plates, “Beef mushroom roast, baked fish, spinach salad, and fruitcake.”  
  
_“Fruitcake?!”_ I shudder.  
  
“It was your mother’s request.”  
  
“Clearly. She is a total fruitcake.”  
  
“Good, you’re removing your contractions.”  
  
I gasped and pointed at her, “You just said you’re.”  
  
“Well, I’m not you, miss.”  
  
I roll my eyes, “No fair.”  
  
_“It is_ not fair.”  
  
I huff and sit on my chair. I throw my sketchbook on the table, grunting. I place my head in my hands, “Just please give me some food, Fleur.”  
  
“Alright, miss.”  
  
“Do you have any nuts?” I wonder. She replies as she walks to the kitchen, “Yes, madam. I’ll be eating chestnuts with you.”  
  
I smile. I hate eating alone.  
  
  
  
This was what my life was like. It resembled my home. Large, but quite empty.  
  
Fleur crunched on some roasted chestnuts while I eat my dinner. I turn to her and ask, “Is my mother going to talk to the Queens?”  
  
The greying haired woman nodded. I examined her brown skin before turning back to my plate. She speaks with her lightly accented voice, “It appears you may be a Queen in the future. I mean, clearly you were bred to be a queen anyway..”  
  
I sigh at her attempt you ease me, playing with my mushroom, creating a glass scratching sound. Fleur scolds me.  
  
I turn back to her and spit out what has been on my mind, “I met Bruce Wayne in the park today.”  
  
Fleur cracks a chestnut and destroys it in the process. I turn my shoulders to her, “He was a hotheaded brute. I’m glad I’m not marrying _him.”_  
  
“Tis _I am_, child.” The woman sighs and shakes her head, “If your mother finds out about this, she will have a fit. She may even forbid you from going off on your own now.”  
  
I huff and tilt my head, “well, she won’t find out if you don’t tell anyone.”  
  
“Will not. Do not.”  
  
I drop my spoon and whine, “Why does my mother care so much about contractions!”  
  
“She is trying to raise you with good breeding.”  
  
I roll my eyes, “She’s trying to control my life! Look, she’s even trying to find me a husband at sixteen.”  
  
“well, madame, in the older times, sixteen was the right age to be married. And besides, your mother will not allow you to be with anyone until you have finished your schooling.”

  


For a moment, I think about Bruce Wayne again. My blood boils at him, even more so now. Once I was indifferent to him, but now I despise his existence.  
  
My mother when I was much younger tried to arrange a marriage with the Waynes before. They did not like the idea of promising a child to someone when they had so much to learn and live for. The rejection made my mother despise them, and since their business was similar to ours, she considered them from then on our most hated rival. Now, my younger self was told never to mingle with the Waynes of Wayne Enterprises. But I never really hated any of them. Of course it’s hard to like someone your mother rebuts, but I’ve never really hated anyone that didn’t do anything bad to me.  
  
It’s not like I proposed to him anyway.  
  
But know, seeing as Bruce Wayne is such an ill-mannered child that has the choice to do whatever he so desires, marry anyone he wishes, makes me hot with envy.  
  
“I’m a good daughter, Fleur! Why can’t I do whatever I please when I’m older.”  
  
Fleur thinks to herself for a moment. She decides what she is to say may be best, “Your mother after your father died went to a fortune teller.”  
  
The start of the story makes me hate it already. Thank goodness I did not inherit my mother’s superstition.  
  
“She was apparently told that she was going to die young.”  
  
I knit my brows and look at her uneasy. She places a hand on my shoulder, “She’s afraid to leave you on your own. She’s doing this so that you will have someone, regardless of what happens.”  
  
I feel a tear run down my face. Fleur wipes it off with her thumb, “Is my mother going to die?”  
  
“We all die at one point dear.” She embraces me, but I do not find comfort in her reply.


	3. Ballroom Boys

“Remember to smile at him,” my mother looks at me and I nod. “You need not laugh at his jokes if they do not humor you.”  
  
We walk into the large ballroom. I look around before my mother catches me. She grabs my arm and smiles while pointing, “there he is, Oliver Green.”  
  
I feel my cheeks burn in embarrassment before I even look his way or see his face. My mother catches my and growls, “Arms back, back straight, head level. She knits her brows and clicks her tongue, “You are a jewel, my love. She is bound to fall for you.”  
  
I feel like regurgitating.  
  
She sighs and takes my hand. “He will love you.” She looks ahead her and leads me to the Queens, _“They all will.”_  
  
I bite my lip and think to fake my confidence for the sake of my mother.  
  
She greets the two adults. I rock back and forth on my soles behind my mother awkwardly. They make small talk. They focus on me then _him._  
  
“Oliver, why don’t you and her get some punch,” the woman who seems to be the said person’s mother instructs. Oliver himself nods and turns to me. I avoid eye contact but show I am going to follow.  
  
  
  
We walk to the buffet table. He clears his throat. He scoops some punch for me and hands the cup before scooping some for himself. “I suppose it’s pointless to introduce myself, but that’s what I do when I meet someone new.”  
  
I turn to my cup and see ripples on the surface. My hands were trembling.  
  
“My name’s Oliver Queen.”  
  
I lick my lips then turn to him, reciprocating the pleasantry. “I am sixteen.”  
  
He curses and it alerts me. “You’re so young.”  
  
I knit my brows, “why? How old are you?”  
  
“18.”  
  
“uh… that’s only two years.”  
  
He shakes his head and extends his hand which was holding a cup, “Yeah but it makes a world of difference.”  
  
I pull a face and think of how in the world two years could make a world of a difference to him when my mother was 23 years younger than my father.  
  
I turn my eyes to look at my mother off in the distance who seems pleased by our conversation. I turn back to Oliver, “Well, I can drive, drink in some countries, I’m in college. I can do… things.”  
  
His raised brow makes me scowl. It takes a minute for me to understand what he means and start blushing furiously. He chuckles and sips on his cup. He places coy, “What happened to your face?”  
  
I glare at him, “You know what, you green goblin.”  
  
He purses his lips, "Well, that's my favorite color. _And what?_ I was talking about buying things without my parents’ permission.”  
  
I narrow my eyes at him and scoff, “As if! No boy I have met has their head out of the gutter.”  
  
Oliver laughs at this. My shoulders relax at this point. I take a sip of my own punch and sigh, “you are lucky you can buy things on your own at eighteen. Surely my mother would not even let me drive until I’m 90.”  
  
He blinks and shakes his head lightly, “I’d let you drive.”  
  
I raise my brows at him.  
  
“I—well, but then again, would I let my 90-year-old wife behind the wheel?”  
  
My lips part at his words and my cheeks burn again. Oliver notices and coughs, “wel-we-we are going to get married… you know that, right? _It’s what our parents want.”_  
  
“I know.”  
  
I nibble my lips and squeak, “I don’t want to get married yet.”  
  
“Me neither,” he replies quickly.  
  
  
  
Our eyes meet. There is a silence between us, it is not unwelcome, but it is still quite awkward. “But hey, we have until you graduate to fall in love.”  
  
My heart quickens at his words.  
  
He turns to the rest of the guests, as do I when they start dancing. He turns to me and places his cup on the table behind him. “I’ll be right back. Gotta pee.”  
  
I knit my brows at his words. My mother would kill me if I ever said I had to go to the bathroom like that.  
  
I think of going back to my mother and Oliver’s parents, just to avoid looking so out of place here, but I think he’d want me to stay and wait for him.

  
  
“Behold, the rude girl from the park.”  
  
I turn to whom spoke. My eyes grow wide when I see it is in fact Bruce Wayne. I step back and ignore him.  
  
He notices this and steps closer, “Where’s your snark gone?”  
  
I huff and snap at him, “Listen. I am not allowed to talk to you. Leave me alone.”  
  
Bruce knits his brows, “Who are you anyway?”  
  
I throw a look like daggers at him. “What do you care.”  
  
He huffs, “I could find out on my own eventually, but it’d easier if you just said so.”  
  
I point my finger, “She is my mother.”  
  
Bruce takes that in and speaks my name, _“is that you?”_  
  
I nod.  
  
  
  
“Why aren’t you allowed to talk to me?”  
  
I huff and cross my arms. I sip my drink, “My mother hates your family… and now, I hate you.”  
  
Bruce pulls his lip up, scoffing, “You hate me because your mother does?”  
  
“No. I hate you because you are a rude troll!”  
  
_“You’re_ the one who started it by throwing the spine of your book at my neck!”  
  
“No, _you_ are who started it by refusing to move when I even asked you nicely at first.”  
  
“And do you always use force on others.”  
  
I narrow my eyes, “I threw a pebble, a pencil, _then_ my sketchbook before you felt anything. Your insensitivity is on you.”  
  
Bruce is rendered speechless at my reply. I finish my drink victoriously. I decide to leave him at this point. However, he speaks up with a question that catches my attention, “Why does your mother despise my family then?”  
  
I look at him and raise a brow, “Why do you care?”  
  
He lets an annoyed growl, “Are you always insufferable? I told you before!” He clenches his jaw and levels his temper, “I’d like to lessen the number of my enemies if I can.”  
  
I knit my brows and wonder how many enemies he has. I shrug, “I doubt you can fix this. My mom asked your parents to arrange a marriage between us.”  
  
Bruce looks at me and I awkwardly find the right words to say. “It was years ago… but my mom took it personally… for some reason… anyway… sorry about your parents.”  
  
The guy is frozen in his spot. I purse my lips and look away, feeling my chest fall at the sight of Oliver talking to some girl who is wearing a promiscuous dress.  
  
I scoff and walk away without a word. Bruce was about to speak again but he loses his chance.


	4. Under the University Umbrella

“Oh you cannot be serious,” I say loud enough for the person sat in the desk in front of me to turn over his shoulder. Bruce blinks at me. I examine the room to look for another vacant chair, any other chair, rather than the one here.

“Do you really hate me that much?”

I huff, “I would rather not sit next to you.”

He sighs, “for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

I look at him and relent, only because the seat next to him was the only seat left. “Look. I’m here to learn, so don’t talk to me.” I cough, “Do not talk to me.”

Bruce knit his brows but remains silent all throughout.

  
Once the class ends, I distance myself from Bruce and try to keep to myself as much as I can, in case we have any other shared classes. It turns out we only have the one—Economics. I’m glad. It’s probably because I was an Industrial Arts major, and only minoring in business. It was a prerequisite of my mother; I either take up business or study what I want and minor it.

I’m glad she gave me a compromise, though she thinks it’s still a waste of my time to learn business when I’m going to take over our business in the end no matter what.

  
College is nothing like I thought it would be. Gotham University was just a façade of marketing lies. I thought that if I studied here I’d follow on the legacy of my parents who were alumni of this esteemed university. Of course they didn’t go here at the same time, and of course their time is much different from mine. And of course… I was different from them.

My father was an all-around super star, coming from a rich background and being the sole heir to the family’s million-dollar empire. He was not only wealthy but handsome, smart, and athletic. He headed the basketball team, winning intra and inter school competitions. He was also the leader and co-founder of the Alpha Fraternity here in Gotham University. And of course, wherever he was there were fanatic girl trying to grab ahold of him.

The same was with my mother. She pushed every guy to the side and focused on her academics, however. She headed an inventor’s club and won many awards for her gadgets. She was set on opening her own technology company and took on a Business degree instead of engineering or, like me, industrial design. That’s where I get it from.

Anyway my mother married my father at 32 after her small business started booming, when he was 53 and worth 65 million. The image that was once of a playboy and splurger that my father had ended there. My mom made him loyal ‘til the death. They had me the same year they got married. Little ol’ me that was not as wanted as either of my parents, nor as smart and memorable.

Father died when I was 7—in his sleep. Many people said my mother killed him, but they never saw how much they loved each other when no one was looking. How many hours they spent dancing with no music on.

I thought I’d have a story of how great I was in college to tell my children, but alas, all I’m doing is sitting in art class, doodling an image of my professor. There are no events to join, no clubs that entice me, no engagements that are worth going to.

The bell rings and my boring art class ends. I stand, gather my things, and exit hoping to experience something livelier. I jolt in between steps when I see one of my classmate’s lip locked on Bruce Wayne’s. I shudder and walk away before either of them notices me. That is not an event I want to tell anyone.

And how unlucky of me. For some reason, that is not the end of that indecent. The girl, named Pamela, likes to recollect the moment over and over to her friends, but really loud enough for the whole class to hear. She thinks it’s a something to boast about and cannot shut up about how Bruce this, Bruce that. I roll my eyes every time. I’d like to poke her fluttering eyes.

Thankfully, air heads like her don’t go to the library. I’m brushing up on some interesting topics in our Cultural Identity class. While I’m at it, I’m drawing some scenes in the text on my sketchbook.

“Mind if I sit here?”

I look over my shoulder and see a boy looking down on me, particularly my drawing. I raise my brows, “why should you?”

“It’s closer to the bookshelf where all these books are from,” he says, placing a stack of books down on the table. It was wholly obvious this fool wasn’t going to be listening to me anyway, so I sigh and tried not think too much that I was sitting to the Wayne.

“If your girlfriend attacks me because she saw us sitting to each other, I will attack her with my sketchbook too,” I mutter without looking away from my drawing.

“What? I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. I turn to him, “so you broke up with her? What’s her name, Pamela?”

“We were never official. We just kissed.”

I scoff, “wow, it’s like you want to be painted a douche.”

“She came onto me,” he turns, narrowing his eyes. I growl, “and you kissed her back! Buddy, it takes two to tango.”

Bruce closes the one open book he had then leans on the table, “you and Oliver Queen apparently waltz.”

I can’t help but chuckle, though it was half dry, “if that is your euphemism for a fixed marriage then yes.”

“… so do you like him?” he asks, eyes staring into mine. Instantly, I feel my cheeks flame, and he clears his throat catching it. “I just… I’m curious because you mentioned your mom used to want it to be me, and you hate me now because of my parent’s refusal, though I didn’t know about it at all.”

I begin to fix my things. I sigh, “I told you it’s because you were a brat, but you still keep guilt tripping me over something my mom extremely dislikes you for.”

I don’t catch his smile, “Just checking.”

When I do turn back to him, he is fixing his books. I knit my brows. He asks, “are you going to the party at Alpha frat house?”

I raised my brows, not even knowing there was a party, “are you?”

He takes a moment to reply, “yeah, why not.”

I shrug and shake my head, “I’m not really a party person.” And with that, I stand and raise a hand at him. “Uh… I gotta go.”

He nods, “yeah. See you around.”


End file.
